already
taken up their positions for the evening, were divers unmarried ladies
past their grand climacteric, who, not dancing because there were no
partners for them, and not playing cards lest they should be set down as
irretrievably single, were in the favourable situation of being able to
abuse everybody without reflecting on themselves. In short, they could
abuse everybody, because everybody was there. It was a scene of gaiety,
glitter, and show; of richly-dressed people, handsome mirrors, chalked
floors, girandoles and wax-candles; and in all parts of the scene,
gliding from spot to spot in silent softness, bowing obsequiously to
this party, nodding familiarly to that, and smiling complacently on all,
was the sprucely-attired person of Angelo Cyrus Bantam, Esquire, the
Master of the Ceremonies.

'Stop in the tea-room. Take your sixpenn'orth. Then lay on hot water,
and call it tea. Drink it,' said Mr. Dowler, in a loud voice, directing
Mr. Pickwick, who advanced at the head of the little party, with Mrs.
Dowler on his arm. Into the tea-room Mr. Pickwick turned; and catching
sight of him, Mr. Bantam corkscrewed his way through the crowd and
welcomed him with ecstasy.

'My dear Sir, I am highly honoured. Ba-ath is favoured. Mrs. Dowler, you
embellish the rooms. I congratulate you on your feathers. Re-markable!'

'Anybody here?' inquired Dowler suspiciously.

'Anybody! The ELITE of Ba-ath. Mr. Pickwick, do you see the old lady in
the gauze turban?'

'The fat old lady?' inquired Mr. Pickwick innocently.

'Hush, my dear sir--nobody's fat or old in Ba-ath. That's the Dowager
Lady Snuphanuph.'

'Is it, indeed?' said Mr. Pickwick.

'No less a person, I assure you,' said the Master of the
Ceremonies. 'Hush. Draw a little nearer, Mr. Pickwick. You see the
splendidly-dressed young man coming this way?'

'The one with the long hair, and the particularly small forehead?'
inquired Mr. Pickwick.

'The same. The richest young man in Ba-ath at this moment. Young Lord
Mutanhed.'

'You don't say so?' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Yes. You'll hear his voice in a moment, Mr. Pickwick. He'll speak to
me. The other gentleman with him, in the red under-waistcoat and dark
moustache, is the Honourable Mr. Crushton, his bosom friend. How do you
do, my Lord?'

'Veway hot, Bantam,' said his Lordship.

'It IS very warm, my Lord,' replied the M.C.

'Confounded,' assented the Honourable Mr. Crushton.

'Have you seen his Lordship's mai